


He Likes You

by fyeahblackturtlenecks



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, Pre-Relationship, ser pounce a lot is cute as usual, the classic "someone breaks into someone else's house by accident" au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3560264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeahblackturtlenecks/pseuds/fyeahblackturtlenecks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Anders finds a stranger on his couch and Hawke is woken up by claws in his chest. Otherwise known as the usual Sunday morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Likes You

**Author's Note:**

> ...I haven't seen one of these yet in the Hawke/Anders tag, so of course I had to supply it.

Anders woke to narrow stripes of sunlight filtering through the closed blinds above his bed and falling across the comforter. He yawned, burying his face in his pillow and pulling the blankets tighter around himself. It was so warm, and so soft, and outside was all hard edges and icicles and stark cold. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, glancing at the time before letting out a satisfied sigh. He’d stayed at the hospital until three in the morning last night--one of the many perks of doing his residency. Anders had no problem with the hours, but sometimes he was grateful that he wasn't on call Sundays. It gave him more time to spend working on articles and with his cat.

He sat up slowly and ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his finger got caught in a tangled piece. He hadn't had a proper haircut since before his undergrad days, only hacking it off with a pair of scissors every time it got long enough to get in the way. _Might be time to give it a trim_ , Anders thought idly as he pushed a few strands out of his eyes. His wandering gaze caught on the spot in his bed usually occupied by his cat and he frowned at its emptiness. With a shrug-- _Cats will be cats_ \--he pushed himself out of bed and picked up an old sweatshirt off the floor that he’d tossed there the night before. His apartment was always cold in the morning, regardless of the thermostat settings, and Anders shivered as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head. As an afterthought, he fished a pair of mismatched socks out of a drawer and tugged them over his feet.

He didn't really need it that morning--he had plenty of energy, a refreshing change from his recent trend of barely being able to convince himself to leave the house--but coffee was still his first order of business. Anders emerged into the small living room, pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands--he really needed to contact someone about this heating situation, it was getting ridiculous--and stopped dead in his tracks.

There was a man laying on his couch, snoring thunderously. His dark hair was a mess, sticking up in every directions, as was his beard, There was a smudge of what looked like red paint over the bridge of his nose. One arm dangled haphazardly off of the couch, the other draped over his middle. Anders’ small tabby kitten, Ser Pounce-A-Lot, was sprawled on his side over the man’s chest.

The cat opened one eye, then the other, and gave Anders a mildly apologetic look before uncurling himself and standing, stretching. Idly, he sunk his claws into the front of the man's shirt.

“HOLY SH-- Maker, that _hurts_ ,” hissed the stranger, tugging his shirt off in a blur of motion and tossing it aside. It landed on top of Ser-Pounce-A-Lot, who slid out from under the garment and gave the stranger an annoyed look before padding off to the kitchen. The man continued to mutter curses under his breath, trying to clear away the beads of blood forming on his chest and only succeeding in smearing them around.

Anders was suddenly and keenly aware of the fact that he was staring. He cleared his throat to call attention to himself. “Good morning,” he said, fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves. He wasn't sure exactly what one did when faced with a stranger who had slept in one’s house and been injured by one’s cat.   
“...You…” the stranger squinted at Anders, rubbing at his eyes. He slumped against the back of the couch, hand moving from eyes to forehead. “You aren't Varric…” he said slowly. “...oh shit, you're not Varric, _Maker_ , my head…”

“No, I'm not…” Anders answered, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m Anders. I'll assume you're looking for the Varric who lives in apartment 333? Across the hall?” He paused, letting the information sink in. “This is 334.”

The stranger let out a groan and sagged sideways until he was lying facedown on the couch with his face mashed into a throw pillow. “I was really drunk last night…” he said, voice muffled by the pillow. He shifted, sliding his hands under the edges of the pillow to hold it more firmly around his face. “Fuck, my _head_ , the _light_ …Sorry,” he added, still not looking up from the pillow. “I’m Hawke, and I'd get up and shake hands or whatever, but I’m busy regretting alcohol.”

“...good to meet you, Hawke,” said Anders, crossing with a small sight to the kitchen. “I know that blocking out the light is your first concern right now, but I think you might be getting blood on my couch right now, so could you please turn over, if you can manage it?” he said as he set a bowl of cat food in front of Pounce and started on the coffee.

“Oh...right, sorry,” Hawke groaned, his shifting audible from the living room. The shuffling sound was followed by a crash.

Anders peered out of the kitchen to find that Hawke had slipped into the gap between the couch and the coffee table and was slowly dragging himself up. Anders retreated to kitchen, taking a few seconds to fill a glass with water and retrieve a few Advil from a cupboard, before going back to set it down on the coffee table in front of Hawke. “Hydrate and take these,” he ordered. “If nothing else, it’ll make your mouth taste better than it probably does now.”

Hawke gave a grateful whine before downing the pills and the glass’s contents in one go. He grimaced as he set it back down. “Still tastes like something died in there, but thanks.”

Anders picked up the glass and made his way back to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to let Pounce through. “I've already got coffee on, I might as well make us both breakfast before I send you across the hall. There’s also a first aid kit in the bathroom, first door on the right down the hall, please get that when you can move? Someone needs to see to those scratches.” He got no answer other than more shuffling and pained whines from the living room. If Hawke had heard anything, he clearly didn't feel like responding.

Anders couldn't really blame him. “How do you like your eggs?” he called.

“You found me hungover and sleeping on your couch, gave me pills and water, and now you're asking how I like my eggs?” Hawke set the first aid kit on the countertop and perched next to it. To Anders’ semi-professional eyes, it looked like the Advil was having the desired effect. "I must say that usually, when I break into someone's house and sleep on their couch, my host calls the police instead of making me breakfast."

Anders shrugged. "You were in pain and clearly in no position to fend for yourself, my conscience wouldn't condone handing you over to law enforcement without at least feeding you first. Now how do you like your eggs?"

"Scrambled, if you don't mind," Hawke smiled. For someone who was clearly still hungover, Hawke smiled a lot.

Anders wondered if that was just his usual state. "How did you get in, anyways? The front door didn't look damaged at all..." he asked as he cracked eggs into a pan. He pulled two mugs from a cupboard and filled them both with coffee and set one down next to Hawke, keeping the other for himself.

"I picked the lock," he answered, bringing the mug close and inhaling deeply. "I could _marry_ this cup of coffee right now, thank you _so much_ , you're a gift to humanity..."

"I do try," Anders said, smiling over the top of his mug. "You can pick locks while drunk?"

"I didn't say I did it well, or efficiently."

Anders shook his head. "How you even remember that is beyond me; if you were drunk enough to break into the wrong apartment..." he set his mug down and started to sort through the first aid kit. "While that cooks, I might as well take care of these scratches," he muttered. "Sorry about Ser Pounce-A-Lot, by the way, I'm sure he didn't mean to."

"You named your cat Ser Pounce-A-Lot?" Hawke raised an eyebrow, and then hissed in surprise as Anders began to dab at the scratches with a disinfectant wipe.

"Of course I did. It's fitting. Hold still," he said after Hawke flinched for the third time. Anders peeled the backing off of a bandage and tried very hard not to stare as he smoothed it over the worst of the damage. Hawke was certainly...aesthetically pleasing,  but he also seemed to be the kind of person who smiled even after waking up hungover and with claws embedded in his front. "All better," said Anders.

"Thank you, Dr. Anders," Hawke said brightly.

"Don't thank me yet," Anders replied. He tossed the used wipe and bandage wrappings into the garbage. "There are plates in the cupboard behind you, could you please get two of them while I wash my hands?"

Anders quickly divided out two portions of the scrambled eggs and set out forks and knives. “Don’t have a proper table other than the one out there,” he said, nodding in the direction of the living room.

“Fine by me,” Hawke said and took his food with him on the way out. “I can't complain, I'm the one who broke into your house.” He set down his coffee cup and perched on the edge of the couch, proceeding to shove a forkful into his mouth. “Oh, _Maker_ , I didn't know I needed that.”

“Breakfast, coffee, and Advil. Clinically proven to at least diminish your hangover. Take it from me, I'm a doctor.” Anders smiled, taking a seat next to Hawke. At the risk of sounding conceited…yes, he could be a good cook, when he remembered that he had a kitchen.

“As in, medical school and stuff?” Hawke said absently. His focus was riveted to his plate.

“Yes, as in medical school. And stuff,” answered Anders. He paused as Pounce jumped onto the couch and took up a post between the two men, rubbing his head against Hawke’s forearm. “He likes you.”

“Does he?” Hawke looked down at his chest, still very much unclothed, and the scratches that hadn’t required a bandage. “I couldn't tell.”

“He didn't mean it…” Anders ran his hand along Pounce’s spine before moving up to rub at the top of his head. The cat purred its approval, pushing his orange head into his owner’s hand. “He’s just a big softie, aren't you, Pounce? Y’know, he was asleep on you before. Quite peacefully.”

“I’m sure he was…” Hawke’s suspicious was clear in  his tone despite being voiced at the same time as he busied himself with polishing off the rest of breakfast. He looked up from his plate, almost entirely clean by now, only when someone began knocking on the door.

“Blondie, you awake?”

Anders set down his own half-empty plate and sighed. “That would be Varric, as you can probably tell.”

“I can,” said Hawke. “Oh...uh, I should probably…” he stood quickly and almost ran into the coffee table in pursuit of the shirt he had thrown out.

“Good idea,” Anders called back, opening the door. “Good morning, Varric,” he said to the short, stocky man standing on the threshold, deep red bathrobe wide open at the chest. His neighbor’s dress sense would have been unsettling had Anders not lived next to him for two years already.

“Mornin--Wait, do you have someone over?” Varric raised an eyebrow, interest lighting up his eyes. “Oh, Hawke, I was looking for you...but if you’re busy…” the man winked.

“Maker, no!” Anders said quickly. “He just...your friend…”

“I broke into his house last night after I got back from the Hanged Man,” Hawke explained. “I meant to break into yours and crash on your couch, but Anders here ended up finding me this morning. He made me breakfast.”

“You look oddly happy for someone who was that close to doing shots off of Fenris last night,” Varric mused.

“He also gave me Advil. Anders is a doctor, Varric. Really, you should know your neighbors.”

“I apologize for Hawke here, he gets like this sometimes,” Varric said. “I'm the responsible friend.”

“Of course you are,” Anders said, nodding in exaggerated solemnity.

“Very much so.”

“Varric, have you got a pen?” Hawke chimed in, moving to lean against the doorframe between Anders and Varric.

The shorter man fished around in the pockets of his robe before pulling out a red felt-tip pen. “Hawke, don’t underestimate me. I always have a pen.”

Before Anders could fully make sense of why Hawke would even need a pen in the first place, Hawke had grabbed his hand and scrawled a series of digits on the palm. “Call me sometime, yeah? I can’t just sleep on your couch and eat your food without leaving contact information. And extending an invitation for coffee sometime?”

“...seems reasonable,” Anders said, trying not to look too confused.

“...I’d comment on this little exchange,” Varric said, eyebrows raised, “but Aveline called and she wants to see you, Hawke.”

“Right, um,” Hawke shot Anders another of his smiles. “Thanks again,” he managed to add before being dragged out the door by his friend.

Anders stared at the number on his hand as he closed the door behind them. Ser Pounce-A-Lot wound himself between his owner’s ankles with a small, perplexed meow. “I don't get it either, Pounce,” Anders sighed as he moved to clear away Hawke’s plate. “But there’s no harm in calling sometime, right?”


End file.
